


Views on the Annual Victor's Hollow Tournament

by siderealOtaku



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Duelling, Erhardt Tries To Be In Disguise, Favors, First Kiss, Flashbacks, M/M, Multiple Pov, Slightly slow burn, Tournaments, blatantly making up Hornburg customs, but he's not very good at it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-27 09:07:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20043457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siderealOtaku/pseuds/siderealOtaku
Summary: A "mysterious" challenger has come to claim the champion's title. Primrose seems to know too much, Philip knows nothing at all, and Cecily just wants to put on a good show. And Olberic? Well...he's not sure what he wants, but maybe the final match will clear some things up.





	1. A View From The Sidelines (Ophilia)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brutal_Harrier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brutal_Harrier/gifts).

> This is my entry for the Octopath Traveler Fic Exchange, and was written for Brutal_Harrier. I was honored to get the chance to further explore the fascinating Olberic/Erhardt dynamic. I hope you like it!

The masked man announced as simply the “Smiling Knight” doesn’t take advantage of the provided healing services until after the semi-final match. He’d knocked out his first opponent, a burly miner from Quarrycrest, without the other man’s axe even nicking the edge of his simple sand-colored tunic. Ophilia _thought_ he might have gotten hit in his bout against Conrad the Impaler and his fearsome lance, and had stood stave at the ready, just beyond the arena doors…only for the man to sweep a dramatic bow and exit the ring with his usual swagger, not the slightest sign of a limp in evidence. 

But Revello Forsythe, the guard-captain from Noblecourt, had matched the Smiling Knight’s sword stroke for stroke, and delivered a slice to his pale chin before the Knight finally brought him to his knees. He’d born the wound stoically, even managing yet another bow before heading to the designated medical area, the concerned gasps of every young man and woman in the audience accompanying his exit like a personal musical theme. 

The Smiling Knight doesn’t take off his battered, sand-scarred half-helm even as Sister Ophilia Clement bends down to chant holy words over the lightly bleeding scrape. He doesn’t speak, either, and a nervous Ophilia struggles to fill the silence: 

“You’ve become quite the favorite today, Sir…er, well, Sir Knight,” she remarks, momentarily stumbling over how to address the nameless competitor. “I saw many among the audience toss their favors down to you – have you accepted any, sir?” 

The Smiling Knight laughs, long and low and surprisingly vital despite his obvious exhaustion, and Ophilia Clement realizes that she knows this man. 

“There’s only one favor I seek” says the Smiling Knight, in a voice she’d last heard just over a year ago as its owner bid their party a longing-tinged farewell at the gates of Riverford. They’d been headed north, hot on the trail of H’aanit’s missing master, while the “Smiling Knight’s” feet had taken him southward and home. 

The offer to accompany them had been made, stilted, awkward, but no less genuine. 

The tone of the refusal had made it clear that those were not the words the speaker had wished to say. 

Today’s final match, she realizes, will be less a fight and more a conversation put off far too long. 

Ophilia has no need to ask whose favor it is he wishes to wear in the final match. Instead, she asks: 

“Why wait? Why here?” 

The Knight’s tanned cheeks flush the barest of reds. “I tried to write. Truly, I did. But…alas, the language of blades has ever been the only tongue in which I am truly fluent.” 

Instead of responding, Ophilia moves to the small table which had been set aside for her use, cluttered with candles, medical tomes, rolls of bandages, and several bundles of herbs Alfyn had insisted on “contributin’ to the cause”. Lying in the center of the mess is a small pile of fabric scraps – bits of tabard or legging or glove which she’d needed to cut away in order to treat some of the larger, stickier wounds. 

Among them is a simple square of faded blue quilting, sliced away from the sleeve of the man whom the Smiling Knight will be facing in the final round of the tournament. The slightest hint of rust-red stain marks one edge, but the healer has a feeling that the warrior will not mind. 

Still without speaking, she leans forward and tucks the fabric into the man’s sturdy, undecorated leather belt. 

The smile he gives her in response is as brilliant as the sun currently beating down on Victor’s Hollow, and Ophilia prays to Aelfric that this man will walk away from the tournament having found what he is looking for. 

She cannot resist a final question before she allows him to return to his preparations for the next, decisive match: 

“Your decision to enter today, and under such an alias…Primrose Azelhart wouldn’t have had something to do with it, would she?” 

He laughs again. “Aye, Sister, you’re a sharp one. Lady Azelhart is certainly not a woman whose demands one refuses lightly…but she was one of only many who helped to bring me here today. I suppose you could say that today is really nothing but the next chapter of a story which started so many years ago…when I first faced that man on the tourney field…”


	2. A View Long Faded (Princess Fredericka of Hornburg)

The Court is scandalized. Fredericka thinks it’s probably the funniest thing she’s seen in all twelve of her years. 

Grumpy Dukes in stuffy black coats and prune-wrinkled Countesses with pinched mouths are saying things like “It’s unheard of” “It’s absurd” “It should never have happened”. Fredericka would be sent to bed without supper if she dared complain like that. Her father has made it clear that even though he’s a King and she’s a Princess, she still has to follow rules and learn about things her tutors called “etiquette” and “decorum”. 

Privately, Fredericka thinks that she’d like to send all these complaining Dukes and whining Countesses to bed without supper. After all, the tourney is being held for her birthday, not any of theirs, and she thinks this “absurd” “unheard of” situation is amazing and beautiful, like something out of a story. 

The final two competitors are standing in the ring, facing one another, blades held loosely in the left hand of one and the right hand of the other. The men are the reason that all of the nobles are so angry: they aren’t who anyone expected to be standing there competing for the prize. They’re young, striplings really, only a few years into their training, still squires moons shy of earning a “Sir” in front of their names. 

They had laughed when the two squires entered the tournament in the first place, Fredericka thinks crossly. It had been a game to them, all those nobles, a bit of entertaining sport. But now that the two men have fought their way through full knights and heroes of the realm and foreign champions come to Hornburg for the occasion and one of them was going to win the tourney, the courtiers in the stand have turned from amused to angry. 

Fredericka is thrilled. The squires cut brilliant figures, the Hornburg sun illuminating them as they turn and bow to the box where the royal family sits. Her heart flutters like a sparrow, even though she knows that their bows are for the King rather than her. 

They’re each stunning in their own way. One is blonde and fair, his hair buoyant around his shoulders despite the sweat of the day’s exertion. He’s dressed all in red, and the girls and boys in the stands toss him handkerchiefs and flowers before every bout. He accepts every single one, and Fredericka wishes it wasn’t improper for a princess to grant a favor, that she could fling down one of these seemingly innumerable ribbons fastening her heavy, uncomfortably complex braided hairstyle. 

The other is clad in cool blue, as tall and dark as the mountains which spawned him, handsome to his opponent’s beautiful. His jaw is strong and his eyes are fine and his expression is deep, guarded, serious. Several spectators have tried to toss favors at his feet, too, but, unlike the blonde man who he will be facing, the taller warrior has refused to accept so much as a single one. 

His opponent notes this, and the bow the red squire drops is full of smirking cheek. “I see your noble figure languishes unfavor’d, Olberic. Might I, then, beseech you in my most pleasing tones to accept mine?” He holds up one white glove, and even at this distance Fredericka can see the sincere expression which reveals his teasing tone as a lie. 

“It would be improper, Erhardt,” the blue squire – Olberic – murmurs, his craggy brows snapping together in an expression of annoyance. Nothing on the man’s face indicates that he wishes he could have said “yes” – and yet, somehow, Fredericka thinks he _does want that,_ and her heart goes out to the man. She knows all about “rules” and “propriety” and having to not do things you want to just because people who like to judge you are watching. 

This gives her an idea. 

As the herald announces the final match, droning on interminably about rules in his bored, hoarse voice, Fredericka wriggles to the far right side of her small throne, leans over as much as she can (feeling as though her horrible heavy hairstyle will cause her to topple over any second) and whispers something into her father’s ear. 

The King of Hornburg sports a look of confusion, but he has never been able to refuse his beloved daughter. 

He nods. Fredericka smirks, squirming in her seat as she thinks about her sneaky plan. 

And, with one last trumpet-blast from the herald, the final match of the Princess’s birthday tournament begins. 

The fight is not over quickly. Clearly, the two men have sparred before – there is an ease and fluidity in their motions which indicates a deep familiarity with one another’s styles. Red-draped Erhardt fights with a dancer’s grace, sweat-streaked blonde locks streaming like a victory banner. The smile never leaves his face. Once, when a well-timed slash from his opponent nearly grazes his cheek, Erhardt even somehow finds the time and energy to laugh. 

Olberic fights methodically, his style favoring defense rather than pressing the attack. He is careful. Each movement of his sword is deliberate, as though he somehow knows exactly where it needs to be at every moment. For all of nimble Erhardt’s rapid movements, he can find no crack in the solid wall of Olberic’s defenses. 

The dark-haired squire’s smiles are neither as frequent nor as broad as his opponent’s, but Fredericka sees them. Her gaze fixated so intensely on the combatants that she forgets to blink, the Princess of Hornburg sees the corners of Olberic’s mouth quirk up as Erhardt shows off another bit of particularly flashy footwork. 

The blonde squire’s vigor seems endless, but the heat of the midafternoon Hornburg sun is oppressive, and Olberic is conserving his own energy with calculated, minimal movements. The taller man notices immediately when his friend-rival’s steps begin to flag, and, for the first time in the fight, goes on the attack, taking advantage of the opening he sees. 

He takes two steps forward, three. Erhardt tries to dodge, but the swift, nimble man has worn himself out, and his opponent advances as implacably as a mountain, barely seeming to sweat. 

And then it is over. The edge of Olberic’s blade rests almost delicately against the fluttering pulse beating in Erhardt’s throat. 

The blonde smiles. “I yield,” he says, before the other squire can ask.

“Well fought, Erhardt,” Olberic responds, still not lowering his sword even though his companion has conceded. 

“Regrettably, I find myself yet again unable to beat you. Perhaps, if I had been wearing your favor, Brand might have smiled upon my blade instead of yours this day, my friend…” Erhardt lets his voice trail off, dark eyes never leaving Olberic’s own. 

The silence stretches between the two men. For a rare, pulse-pounding moment, Fredericka thinks that something momentous may be about to happen. She holds her breath. Counts out the seconds: One. Two. Three…

And then Olberic lowers his blade, and the crowd goes wild with applause, and the moment is lost. 

The King hands his daughter the winner’s prizes: a gold dagger and a silver one, each with a round black gemstone embedded in the hilt and the crest of Hornburg stamped into the fine metal of the blade. (The purses of coin which come with victory will be handed out later, in a more private setting – these elegant armaments are more symbols than anything else.) 

Fredericka reaches into the heavy crown of braids atop her head and carefully withdraws two ribbons: one deep red, one cool blue. She ties the red one around the hilt of the gold dagger and the blue one around the silver. Her father’s look of confusion grows, but he does not comment, only stands to formally announce that the tournament has come to a close. 

Her governess leads Fredericka down to the field where she will present the prizes. The Princess breaths in, smelling oil and leather, sweat and horses and the tang of metal heavy in the back of her throat. 

The men are even taller in person: Erhardt a lithe tree, Olberic a solid mountain. They tower over her like titans, like gods. The prepared speech, the one that her father always gives, sticks in her throat, withers like a dying flower under the sun-bright eyes of the men she knows will someday be Hornburg’s greatest champions. 

She opens her mouth, and words fall out, different words, words she had not even remotely planned on saying before this moment: 

“Here,” Fredericka declares, handing the golden dagger to Olberic, who has to bend down nearly in half to take it from her hand. “Now you have his favor, and he has yours. Cause you’re red and blue, you know.” She repeats the gesture with Erhardt, and the genuine smile he gives her outshines the sun. 

“I will bear your favor with honor, Olberic Eisenberg.” Erhardt speaks so quietly that only Olberic and Fredericka can hear it, his voice the susurrating whisper of wind across sand dunes. 

“And I yours, Erhardt,” Olberic responds, in a whisper like the trickle of spring’s first snowmelt atop Hornburg’s highest peak. 

Her father is displeased with her, of course, for forgetting the proper words, and he sentences her to extra etiquette lessons for a month. But in her heart of hearts, Fredericka knows it was worth it to have been there, to have witnessed that quiet, secret moment which had passed between the two men.   
_  
(Many years later, a party of cocksure adventurers will unearth the remains of what was once the Hornburg knights’ barracks. In one room, they will find a golden dagger, hidden cleverly underneath a slightly loose floor-stone. In the very next room lies its twin, a tarnished but still serviceable silver, stabbed point-down in the remains of what might once have been an overstuffed feather pillow. _

_The red and blue ribbons, however, they do not find, nor any scraps or threads which might have indicated that they had simply been allowed to rot away with time. The Unbending Blade and the Blazing had taken two very different routes upon leaving the ruins of the country they once served, but, in this one matter, their choice had been the same.) _


	3. A View to a Profit (Cecily)

_Bale, _

_How fairs Wellspring, old friend? Still sweating away down there? I heard that you finally got the lizardmen cleared out. Maybe now I’ll be able to convince a few of the local merchants to pencil your little oasis in on their way to the Fair in Grandport. Safety and peace are all well and good, but it’s commerce that makes a town thrive, Bale, you can’t deny it. _

_As much as I wish I could say this letter was simply an inquiry about your health, the truth is I’m writing to you because of a problem with this year’s tourney. Simply, the problem is, Bale my friend, if I can’t think up something quick, there might not even BE one!!!!!_

_How can it be, between one year and the next, every able combatant in all Orsterra seems to have gotten themselves injured or killed or simply vanished? Frostblade’s off traveling down in the Riverlands with his new bride, Grieg’s busy body-guarding that Princess of Marsalim, Wallace Wildsword’s laid up after a scuffle with a venomtooth tiger, and nobody’s seen hide nor hair of the Black Knight since last year’s battle. Even with Lady Azelhart offering her guards extra leave-time if they enter, we’ve got nothing in the way of bouts which would draw an interested crowd. _

_The rumors on the street say I’m going to be responsible for bankrupting Victor’s Hollow. Can you believe it, Bale? Me? Cecily? The one they call the Coincounter? BANKRUPT? _

_Which brings me to this letter. _

_Lady Azelhart happened to mention something interesting in her last letter – something about a swordsman who’s taken up residence in your town? She mentioned that he might be interested in participating, and – and these are her exact words here, Bale – “and if he doesn’t seem to be, just tell him that Olberic Eisenberg will be defending his Champion’s title from last year.” _

_You’re my last hope, Bale. I don’t know if this desert swordsman is as impressive as Lady Prim seems to think he is, but he could be my only shot at putting on a good show this year. Just, talk to him? If he’s around? Do this for me, and I’ll send every merchant I can your way, even the shady ones. (Don’t pretend I don’t know about that black market operating on the outskirts of your little town, Bale. It’s the worst kept secret in Orsterra) _

_Ever your friend, even in this my darkest hour of need! _

_Cecily _


	4. A View from Just Before (Philip)

“Are you going to win, Sir Berg…er, I mean, Sir Olberic?” In his excitement, Philip has been switching all day between the knight’s proper name and the false one he had used for most of his years in Cobbleston. 

The big knight laughs, deep and rumbling, a sound more felt than heard. “I cannot say for sure, Philip. If Brand and Winnehild will it, perhaps.” 

The boy is tall enough now to help Olberic fasten his sword belt and put on his heavy, dark gloves, and he does so with beaming pride. He’s not quite of an age to be officially taken on as Sir Olberic’s squire, but he’s growing like a weed, and he practices every day, even the ones where the Cobbleston mornings are so bitterly cold he feels like his fingers will turn to ice and freeze around the hilt of his practice blade. And Sir Olberic had noticed, and Sir Olberic had brought _him_ along to the tourney, and now Philip is going to get to watch his hero win the entire thing. 

Well, except, he’s still got one more bout to win, and Sir Olberic’s friend Lady Primrose had said something mysterious about “this one will be quite the match,” and Philip is scared that the knight might not be the champion after all. 

“How can’t Brand and….Win-hild….” Philip stumbles slightly over the hard, declarative symbols of the goddess’s name, “…how can’t they want you to win, Sir?” He hears the whine of childhood starting to creep back into his voice, and swallows heavily to chase it away. He wants to be a knight, a man, not a pouting boy. 

The knight places one gauntleted hands on the boy’s shoulder, a serious look in his eyes. “The Smiling Knight and I have crossed blades many times before, lad. Some of these bouts I have won, and other times, the victory has been his. There are those who might say that the gods of battle favor us both….I…can only hope those who say that speak the truth.” 

Olberic’s gravelly voice cracks slightly, and Philip doesn’t understand. Is he saying that he wants to lose his battle against the Smiling Knight? And, he was talking about his opponent like he knew him, but Miss Cecily had said that _nobody_ knew, that he was some mysterious competitor come up from the desert who nobody in Victor’s Hollow had ever seen before. 

There are so many questions on Philip’s lips, but Olberic puts one gauntleted finger against them, stopping the words from tumbling out of the eager boy’s mouth.

For a moment, silence hangs heavy between them as the big man attempts to get his thoughts in order. Olberic Eisenberg is not a man given to many speeches, but he senses Philip’s confusion and struggles to explain. 

“You can learn much about your opponent simply by watching the way they fight,” Olberic says softly – or, at least, as softly as a man of his stature possibly can. “The Smiling Knight is a man I have fought before. Against, yes, but alongside, too…I knew him from the moment he unsheathed his blade.” 

Philip nods gravely, but he isn’t quite sure that he understands. He’s always thought of tourneys as dashing, romantic events filled with epic battles and displays of chivalry, populated by knights who wanted nothing more than to make their name by taking home the victory. But Sir Olberic’s seems to want something else – something Philip can’t properly suss out from that unreadable expression in the knight’s dark eyes. 

So instead of wishing him victory, the boy says only: “Fight well, Sir Olberic.” 

“I will, my boy. I will.” And Sir Olberic ruffles Philip’s hair, like the boy’s father used to all those years ago, and joy fills Philip to the brim. He hopes that whichever one of them wins the bout, Sir Olberic or the Smiling Knight, will feel just as happy about their victory as he does right now.


	5. A View of the Action (the Travelers)

Primrose Azelhart lounges artfully against the back of her seat, sipping from a magically chilled waterskin. Her pose speaks nothing but idleness, but the three men and two women occupying the seats around her do not miss the rapid, darting motions of her kohl-lined eyes as she studies the competitors. 

“Afraid your brilliant plan might fail after all, Lady Prim?” Therion asks, tossing an apple lazily from hand to hand. 

“Of course not,” the noblewoman snaps, but her tone says otherwise. 

“That practice, of bowing to your opponent before the match begins. None of the other entrants did that, other than Sir Olberic and Sir Erha…er, that is, the Smiling Knight. Might that be some sort of old Hornburgian custom?” Cyrus Albright’s pen scratches incessantly against the parchment, taking notes for an essay he intends to write chronicling the day’s events. Privately, despite his close friendship with Olberic, he hopes that the helmeted challenger wins, as the existing scholarly literature on the Blazing Blade of Hornburg is practically nonexistent, and Cyrus would love nothing more than to be the first to till this fertile ground. 

Primrose might have said something, might have tried to distract herself by answering the scholar’s questions, but then the bell rings to signify the start of the final match, and any words are drowned out by the cheers of the crowd. 

None of them have actually _seen_ Olberic and Erhardt fight before. Their duel in the lizardmen’s cave had occurred in private, not witnessed by any except the two men themselves. The blonde knight had fought with them in Riverford, but they had been too occupied with cutting down Werner to remember much of what had transpired that day. 

This leads to opinions on who will take the day’s win being…rather divided. 

“Olberic moven with care,” H’aanit observes. “He cannot but outlasten his foe, I say.” Seated at the huntress’s feet, Linde thumps her tail as if in agreement. 

“Yeah, but look at Sir Erhardt!” Tressa practically shouts, the feather in her cap bobbing as she jumps from her seat. “He’s so _fast_! Sir Olberic’s great, but there’s no way he can keep up!” 

“I gotta cheer for Olberic. Ain’t feel right rootin’ against him,” Alfyn puts in loyally, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Then I suppose that means I’ve got to root for Erhardt, since thieves are supposed to be contrary, _ain’t_ we?” Therion smirks, imitating the apothecary’s thick Riverlands accent. 

Cyrus merely continues writing, keeping his private thoughts to himself. He reminds himself that he is the Observer: objective, distant, uninvested in the events unfolding before them. 

(Not that this stops him from cheering when the Smiling Knight strikes a glancing blow off Olberic’s shoulder, or when the taller knight successfully prevents his opponent from circling behind him. The Professor’s eventual essay will, of course, contain no mention of these rather undignified, certainly un-academic bouts of cheering.) 

Primrose Azelhart, too, says nothing. 

She is hoping for something to happen today, but it has absolutely nothing to do with who might win or lose the Victor’s Hollow Tournament. 

The dancer rests her chin in her cupped hands, brown hair cascading around her heart-shaped face, a private waterfall keeping her isolated from the cheers and shouts of the crowd. 

Thrust. Parry. Step. Duck. Parry. Thrust. 

A strike at the knees from Olberic. A nimble dodge from Erhardt. 

The Twin Blades of Hornburg are evenly matched this day. 

Step. Twirl. Turn. Thrust. Dodge. 

Neither quite able to claim the advantage over the other. An eternal stalemate – like so many sparring matches on the training grounds of Hornburg, so many lingering looks over drinks at the tavern, so many unwritten letters and unfinished conversations. 

For years, neither has made the right moves, asked the right questions, said quite the right words. 

But today? 

Now? 

Here, in the midst of the tournament, with all of Victor’s Hollow watching? 

Olberic steps forward. H’aanit gasps. Erhardt dodges to the side. Tressa cheers. Olberic bends the slightest of inches, his face now level with his still-masked opponent’s. Therion drops his apple, and Alfyn’s fists clench so tightly that he leaves ragged, half-moon nail marks on his palms. 

The scratching of Cyrus’s pen abruptly stops. 

Primrose smiles knowingly. 

Olberic leans forward, eyes running along the seams where his opponent’s helm meets his skin. 

And he says, in that deep, rumbling, Highlands-thunderstorm voice, barely above a whisper yet somehow loud enough to be heard by Philip at the edge of the arena, Ophilia in the healer’s tent, Cecily in the lobby, and Primrose in the stands…


	6. An Eye-to-Eye View (Olberic and Erhardt)

_“…Erhardt.” _

The “Smiling Knight’s” eyes fly open. 

“How did you…” 

Olberic sheathes his sword. With careful, trembling figures, he unbuckles his opponent’s helmet, removing it as gently as though it were a crown being lifted from the brow of a king. 

Blonde hair streams out, slightly darkened by years of the Wellspring sun, but just as lush and gleaming as Olberic remembers. 

The Blazing Blade repeats the question, his voice small, shaking, _hoping:_ “How did you know it was me?” 

Olberic answers with complete honesty. “Your smile. Your eyes. Your fighting style. The way you moved, the way you dodged, the way you laughed. I’d know you anywhere, Erhardt.” 

The next question comes out tentative, uncertain: “Even now, after all these years?” 

The knight of Wellspring hears exactly the answer he was hoping for: 

“Especially now.” 

The time for words, Erhardt senses, is past. He shifts the scabbard of his sword slightly, allowing Olberic to see the scrap of blue fabric tucked into his belt – and the deep blue ribbon tied snugly around it. 

In response, the Unbending Blade rolls up the sleeve of his right arm, revealing a dust- and sweat-stained – but still beautiful and vibrant – red ribbon tied around his wrist.

“Since that day, I’ve never fought a single battle without wearing your favor,” Olberic says, his voice impossibly gentle. 

“I hid your ribbon away for so long,” Erhardt confesses. “I carried it with me, but I didn’t wear it. I thought…I was sure, I wasn’t worthy. It was only when Sister Ophilia gave me this cloth, today…I thought that I might…” he indicates the cloth, a red rush of heat rising to his cheeks as he hopes Olberic will not deny him this. 

“I desire nothing more than for you to wear my favor in every fight, from today until the day you hang up your blade, Erhardt,” the Unbending Blade murmurs. 

“Nothing more, oh?” Erhardt’s eyes are twinkling with their usual mischief as the clever knight at last finds his footing. 

“Well, perhaps one thing more,” Olberic admits, and he leans down, at last closing the distance between them with an eager, questing kiss. 

Both men’s lips are dry and cracked from the long hours of fighting. The kiss tastes of sweat and dirt and even slightly of metal. They’re both so exhausted and winded that they have to keep breaking apart to catch short, gasping breaths of the stifling air. 

It’s _perfect. _

(Ophilia smiles. Primrose whoops. Cyrus frantically adds annotations to his parchment. Alfyn puts two fingers in his mouth and whistles. Jokingly, Therion tries to cover Tressa’s eyes, sending the usually stoic H’aanit into gales of laughter. Philip blushes and looks away, while Cecily wonders what’s going to happen now that the match has seemingly concluded without a clear victor. Disguised in simple merchant’s garb, the now-adult Fredericka, once Princess of Hornburg-that-was, wipes a single tear from her eye and quietly slips out of the stands before either man can recognize her.) 

“Come back to Cobbleston with me, after the festivities conclude?” Olberic asks, releasing the other knight’s lips but keeping both of his hands tightly clapsed. 

“Come back to my room at the tavern, right now?” Erhardt counters. 

It’s Olberic’s turn to flush red. “I…Ah…Er…” 

But then he catches Primrose’s eye, and the dancer shoots him a pointed wink, and the Unbending Blade decides to give as good as he’s getting. Placing one hand between Erhardt’s shoulders and the other low on his back, he sweeps the man into a bridal carry. 

As the spectators watch, some cheering, some stunned silent, Olberic carries Erhardt in his strong arms, occasionally stopping to lean down and steal another kiss. The two knights continue in this manner out of the arena, through the streets of Victor’s Hollow, and finally into the tavern, quickly disappearing from any view but their own.


End file.
